


Wear Me On Your Skin

by mokuyoubi



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Cutting, Fluff, I'm bad at this sort of thing, Knifeplay, M/M, Medical Kink, Murder Husbands, POV Hannibal, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Will, Scarification, Scars, Top Hannibal, Topping from the Bottom, ish?, maybe? - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 07:29:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7160066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/pseuds/mokuyoubi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will and Hannibal discuss the nature of guilt and regret in reference to the scars from Matthew Brown's attempt on Hannibal's life, and Hannibal makes a tantalising offer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wear Me On Your Skin

**Author's Note:**

> As ever I'd like to thank my dearest [sherlocks-freebitch](http://sherlocks-freebitch.tumblr.com/) for her encouragement, and [lunacyandlovliness](lunacyandlovliness.tumblr.com) for helping me with the medical stuff when it got over my head, being patient and reassuring and so kind! It's still not perfect in that regard, but its at least more realistic than the show, anyway!

Ever the student of human nature, Hannibal has found Will Graham fascinating and vexing in near equal measure from the very beginning of their relationship. Since his youth, his earliest memories in fact, Hannibal knew he was different. The study and mimicry of those around him have been his greatest survival skills. Mimicry, but never full understanding. That has often eluded him. 

  


There are emotions he simply thought beyond him, until Will. Love visited him once in his life, and since her death, he had only ever felt cheap echoes of the emotion, until Will. Yet it is difficult, if not impossible, to say whether this thing he feels for Will, monstrous and violent, possessive and tender--utterly transformative--is readily recognisable as such to anyone but the two of them. 

  


More, it is difficult to name just what it is Will feels for him, in turn.

  


Hannibal has fallen in love with a man able to clearly trace the lines of influence and motivation of everyone around him, yet undesirous of his gift. Yet Will himself largely remains a mystery to all, Hannibal included.

  


It is, he supposes, part of Will’s allure. In a world of infinite possibility that is nonetheless woefully predictable, Will’s unpredictability is a breath of fresh air. Which is why Hannibal has allowed this to play out how it will. For the first time in his life, he has no idea what will happen next, and it is maddening, and terrifying, and exhilarating. Life on the run with Will has quickened him, so that now, in his mid-life, he finds he is more alive than he has ever been before.

  


They are not lovers, and then Will decides they are, and they don’t kill, until Will decides they do. Each transition is made seamlessly, without missing a step. It’s as if, as Hannibal has been trying to show Will for the past five years, they’ve been made to do this with one another. 

  


Hannibal does not believe in anything as pithy as fate, or luck, and yet, he is everyday thankful for the series of events that brought Jack Crawford to his doorstep. Maybe he could be convinced to spare Alana’s life afterall.

  


Cohabitation has its blessings and its pitfalls. Neither of them are accustomed to sharing their space with another, and neither of them are willing to sacrifice intimacy for the sake of comfort. When Hannibal thinks there are no more barriers between them, no more awkward and painful truths to learn about himself, no more emotional hurdles for Will to negotiate, that is when Will likes to show him how very wrong he is. Which keeps things interesting, at the very least.

  


Will takes particular delight in seeing Hannibal off-balance, so much so that there are times Hannibal suspects him of engineering specific scenarios with that goal in mind. Hannibal is aware enough of this manipulation to acknowledge it, and hopeless enough in his love for Will to ruefully accept it. He is not so far gone that he can’t still turn the situation on its head and surprise Will in turn.

  


When Will holds Hannibal’s wrists against the bedsheets when they’re making love, thumbs pressing into the seams of his scars. When he traces the faint pinprick indentations with the side of a nail, his tongue along the edge and sharp relief along Hannibal’s vestigial  _ palmaris longus _ tendon. When he stares while Hannibal does his prep work for dinner, or from across the table as they dine, fixated. Hannibal thinks he understands.

  


Neither of them have openly discussed the many transgressions they’ve made, one against the other, over the course of their relationship. It hardly seems worth rehashing at this point, risen from the ocean and reborn into this new life, free of those sins. 

  


Will never hesitated after that point. There was no question that he was committed to taking this journey along with Hannibal at his side, regardless of where it led. Apologies seemed trite, but Hannibal thinks it’s regret he sees lurking in Will’s eyes, when he handles the scars Brown left so delicately, when he can’t tear his gaze away.

  


“There is no use in feeling guilt over the things we cannot change,” Hannibal tells him. “It will paralyse us.”

  


“Guilt?” Will says the word as if it hadn’t even occurred to him--as if the very concept is foreign. “What do I have to feel guilty over, Hannibal? In regards to you?”

  


Hannibal adjusts the cuffs of his sweater, bunched halfway up his forearms. The length of the scars are bared, faded but still clearly distinguishable. Will snorts, darkly humourous. “Guilt is the result of intentionally doing something you know is wrong. Trying to have you killed? That wasn’t wrong; it was righteous.”

  


Ah, and here is the twist in the game. Will purposefully leading him into this line of questioning, knowing where Hannibal’s mind would wander, waiting for his trap to be sprung. “Perhaps it’s your own guilty conscience you’re projecting on me,” Will says, cruel smile twisting his lips.

  


Guilt is such a foreign concept to Hannibal, so as to be unfathomable. There are things he would have done differently, upon reflection, but every choice he’s made has led him to this present, where Will sits across the crackling fireplace from him, in the home they share, bellies full of their latest hunt. Clearly guilt doesn’t figure into the equation.

  


“I don’t feel guilt over that,” Will says, in Hannibal’s reflective silence. He sips whiskey and sucks his teeth, staring into the flickering flames. They catch in his eyes, turning the blue the same amber as the liquid in his tumbler. His lashes dip shadows over his cheeks. “What I feel is regret.”

  


“I wish,” Hannibal supplies, head resting against his wingback chair. “What is it you would do differently?”

  


“Is that so hard to fathom?” Will asks. He sets aside his glass with a clink on the marble top coffee table and stands slowly, hips swaying as he crosses the narrow space between them. Hannibal shifts lower in his seat, giving him more lap to climb on. 

  


Will takes the invitation, knees pressed tight to thighs in the narrow confines of the seat. He picks up Hannibal’s left hand, turns it palm up. “I wish I’d never sent Brown after you,” he says, voice gravelly. “I wish I’d had more patience.” A finger trails down the scar. “I wish I’d been the one to make them.”

  


“Being the cause of them is not enough for you?” Hannibal looks up at him, eyebrow cocked teasingly.

  


Will rocks his hips forward once, enough to spark interest in Hannibal’s groin. He brings Hannibal’s hand up under his shirt, to press against the scar there. “Would you have been satisfied?” he breathes, lips close to Hannibal’s ear but not quite touching. “To know it was someone else slicing into me? I saw your face when it was the Dragon making marks on my body.”

  


Hannibal’s fingers curl against his skin, clutching possessively to the raised, jagged line beneath his hand. He can feel Will’s smile against his cheek, scruff dragging on scruff with a faint whispering, and then Will kisses him, dirty and slick. He draws back just enough to nuzzle up the line of Hannibal’s nose, along the curve of his brow. “Someone else watching the skin give way for their blade. Someone else with my blood hot on their skin.”

  


With a faint growl, Hannibal turns his face up, finding Will’s mouth by touch, just as his fingertips find the very place his knife first sank in, wider from where he’d twisted the blade, flat and slippery. He strokes up and down along the striations and sucks Will’s tongue, swallowing the hungry sound he makes. Will rocks up and back down, sets up a steady rhythm. One hand fists in Hannibal’s sweater, tugging him closer.

  


“The marks you’ve left on me are more...apparent, than the ones I’ve left on you,” Will pants against his mouth.

  


“Though arguably, less intimate,” Hannibal says. He palms Will’s ass, rolls his own hips up to meet the slow, grinding twist of Will on his lap. And now, it’s his turn to see Will fumble. “But if it’s blood you want, I’ll happily give it.” 

  


Will hums faintly, too caught up in sensation. He doesn’t take the words seriously and Hannibal smiles in satisfaction. Will ducks to kiss him again, and Hannibal turns his head to the side, seeking lips landing on his jaw instead. He leans back to look at Hannibal, a furrow between his brows. “You mean that?”

  


“Is that so difficult for you to fathom?” Hannibal teases. “That I would allow you to open his scars and make them yours?”

  


Will’s throat works around a swallow, adam’s apple bobbing. “That seems a little risky.”

  


“No more risky than when it was done in the first place.” Hannibal smirks. “Matthew Brown didn’t have a licensed physician on hand.”

  


“I’m pretty sure they’ve revoked your license by this point.”

  


“You’re prevaricating,” Hannibal says. “Or perhaps when faced with the opportunity, you’re not so keen as you claimed to be.”

  


Will grins wide, tongue sweeping lush across his teeth. All lupine grace, he rises to his feet and tugs Hannibal along with him. Along with lust, there is a glint of challenge in his eyes. “Are you going to walk me through it?”

  


“If that is how you wish it to be done,” Hannibal says, head bowed in acquiescence.

  


“I don’t want you to die  _ anymore _ ,” Will drawls.

  


Briefly, Hannibal mourns the loss of his workspace at home in Maryland. There is no comparable, appropriate place for them to do this. He has the necessary tools, however, and the dining table will do in a pinch. After disinfecting the surface and laying down a sterile drape, he lines up the tools. Forceps and sterile gauze and scalpel. He hasn’t had much time since their relocation to fully stock his medical supplies--the no. 10 blade will have to do, though he’d prefer the 15.

  


“I think one cut, for the time being, don’t you?”

  


Will reaches out to stroke a finger down the inside of Hannibal’s left wrist. “We’ll leave you your dominant hand.” He watches with no small measure of amusement, at the array of sterile gauze, the drivers and sutures. “Afraid of a little mess?” he asks, the curve of his lips insouciant.

  


Hannibal spares him a rueful chuckle at the thought that this, somehow, is overkill. The surgeon inside him despairs over the conditions, but what Will would refer to as his romantic streak is unconcerned with anything other than Will’s desire to mark him. He has antibiotics left over from their little sojourn in the Chesapeake. That will suffice.

  


“There shouldn’t be much blood, between the scar tissue and location.” He glances up briefly from administering the local infiltration of marcaine. “Unless you cut deeply.”

  


Will draws up a chair next to him. He is surprisingly adept at donning the surgical gloves--certainly not learned from his time with the police or the FBI, though perhaps something picked up alongside medical examiners. Hannibal rests his wrists on the table, turned up for Will’s inspection. “He missed the artery by a narrow margin, didn’t he?” 

  


Brown made the cut towards the proximal aspect of his forearm, where the radial artery was further from the surface. That he avoided damaging the median nerve is nothing short of miraculous. “I believe I would have bled out far too quickly for him to enjoy it, if he had,” Hannibal says. “He wanted to watch me suffer.”

  


“ _ I _ wanted to watch you suffer,” Will murmurs. “Matthew only wanted to please me.”

  


“Careful,” Hannibal says, “I might begin to think you never intended him to kill me in the first place. Avoiding all the important nerves and tendons.”

  


“That, or he was especially inept.” Will picks up the scalpel and unwraps it with casual ease. “It was my understanding that you would have passed out from bloodloss before long, and hanged.”

  


Except in the case of the Dragon, Will prefers using his hands over using any weapon. No one would think him weak, if they saw the wiry muscles packed on his diminutive frame, but certainly they wouldn’t think him capable of the brutality he visits on their victims. Raw and unrestrained, and absolutely brutal when he has been sufficiently provoked.

  


It is strange to watch him, scalpel in hand, lining up his cut so precisely. Pressing the sharp tip delicately to Hannibal’s scar, he drags downward without breaking the skin. He lays the curved edge flat and draws it upward with more pressure, sending skittering tingles of referred sensation along Hannibal’s arm. 

  


“Yeah?” Will asks, when Hannibal inhales roughly. He strokes gentle lines between the indentations where the stitches once held the wound together, and the hair at the nape of Hannibal’s neck stands on end. “Why am I not surprised you’re into this.”

  


Hannibal has the distinct feeling that Will could reveal a desire for the most shocking and unnerving fetishes, and Hannibal would not only indulge him, but delight in it, as well. Of course, he keeps that to himself for the time being. He also has no doubt Will would take unfair advantage of the fact, as he has in their daily life already, with the disparity of power between them.

  


In the end, all he says is, “I suppose it was inevitable that in our sexual relationship, we have come to associate pleasure with pain.”

  


“You mean,” Will says, and places the first cut, catching Hannibal off-guard. “How the first time you were inside me was with the blade of a knife?”

  


“Or how your declaration of love was to hurl us over a cliff?” It is not a particularly sensitive spot where Will has chosen to cut him, between location and scar tissue. A lancing cold runs from fingers to shoulder, but no real pain. He watches as Will drags the scalpel along the seam of his scar, neatly splitting the dermis.

  


“They do refer to marriage as ‘taking the plunge.’” Will cuts deeper, and blood begins to well. Hannibal doesn’t even register the sensation. Either the marcaine is taking effect, or he’s simply that undone by the off-handed tone as much as Will’s words. 

  


Will glances up at him from under his lashes, a flirtatious twist of his lips to one side. “I always consider it a personal victory when I render you speechless.”

  


“These days it seems to occur with startling frequency,” Hannibal says absently. Will dabs the blood away with gauze, a furrow of concentration on his brow, and he reaches for the vicryl sutures.

  


“There’s something to be said for exchanging scars in place of golden bands,” he says. Hannibal watches those nimble fingers, so used to the delicate task of tying his flies, carefully driving the needle through his skin. He feels only the gentle tug of the thread and none of the accompanying pain. 

  


“Given the relative permanence of either one.” Will leaves one neat stitch. “The likelihood of losing one or the other.” Another stitch, and another, evenly spaced. 

  


“The intimacy of having left our marks on one another, versus the hollow symbolism of dented, tarnished gold,” Hannibal says pointedly, lifting his eyes to Will’s, as he finishes the last stitch.

  


He doesn’t know what has become of Will’s wedding band. He only knows at some point between clawing their way onto the beach and the end of their convalescence, it disappeared from his hand. They’ve never spoken of it, and Hannibal doubts they ever will. It hardly seems relevant or consequential.

  


“No,” Will agrees. He lays the bandage in place and tapes it down. “No taking these off.” He places his hand gently on top

  


Hannibal covers Will’s hand with his own. “‘Til death do us part?”

  


“I don’t know; it might not be up to your aesthetical standards.” Will peels off his gloves and flings them aside.

  


Hannibal traces the tips of two fingers along the scar on Will’s forehead. “Compromise is a necessity in any marriage,” he says. “And you do wear your scars quite fetchingly, afterall.”

  


Will hooks a hand around the back of Hannibal’s neck and grins fiercely, bringing their mouths together in a rough kiss. Their teeth clack from the force and there’s the bright taste of blood spreading over his tongue. Will licks over the raw spot on Hannibal’s lip, drawing the flavour forth. 

  


The chair legs scrape across the floor as he scoots closer, knees opening wide on either side of Hannibal’s legs. His hips rock forward, mimicking the roll of his tongue, but when Hannibal reaches for him, Will catches his hand and pushes him back. He draws away, eyes heavily-lidded, and stands. 

  


With a sultry, inviting look over his shoulder, Will disappears down the hall towards the stairs, and Hannibal is quick to follow. Clean-up can wait until the morning. He goes into the den to bank the fire and then heads for the stairs.

  


In their room, Will has left his clothes in a pile at the foot of bed. He stands naked in the light of the bedside lamp, skin winter pale and cast gold and shadow in the glow. Hannibal has drawn him so often from memory alone, but even able to call the image up behind closed eyes, it is never the same as the immediacy of Will before him in all his beautiful imperfection. 

  


He’s fiddling with the bed, turning down the sheets and fluffing Hannibal’s pillows, but as soon as Hannibal enters, Will comes to him, catching both his hands. “Come here.” He leads Hannibal to the bed and sits him down, kneeling before him, pulling his sweater up over his head. “How long will the painkiller last?”

  


“A few hours.” Will’s hands draw through the hair on his chest, fingers skating lightly over his nipples on their path downward, and when Hannibal reaches out to touch in turn, Will leans back.

  


“Let me,” Will says, kisses pressed to Hannibal’s fingertips. 

  


“The pain won’t be so bad,” Hannibal protests. “It was mostly scar tissue.”

  


Will unfasten the hook on his slacks with a sharp tug and goes up on his knees to kiss Hannibal as he pulls the zipper down. “ _ Let me _ ,” he whispers, voice husky, breath hot and moist across Hannibal’s lips.

  


Hannibal surrenders, palms pressed to the bedspread. He lifts his hips to allow Will to drag down his pants and underwear all at once, erection springing up eagerly between them. It has not subsided since Will climbed into his lap, between the things Will has said and done. He knows just how to craft his words and actions to keep Hannibal painfully aroused, for hours on end if he so desires. 

  


But this evening, the torment is not to last long. As soon as Hannibal is naked before him, Will’s hand lays flat on his chest, pushing him to lie back on the bed, and his mouth closes around Hannibal’s cock, swallowing him all the way down in one luscious, sultry slide. His throat works to take Hannibal deep. 

  


Hannibal groans and clenches the sheets into his fists, to keep them from Will’s hair. He arches upward and Will moans around him. The sensation vibrates through his cock and lower, where Will’s dry fingers circle his opening. He sets up a torturous pace, suckling at head of Hannibal’s cock when he draws back,fingers just teasing the tight rim of muscle. Fist working the foreskin up, his tongue swirls around just inside, and Hannibal, never shy with his praise, pants Will’s name, tells him how divine his mouth feels.

  


Looking down, Hannibal can see the faint strain around Will’s closed eyes when he takes Hannibal deep, cheeks flushed and hollowed for the force of sucking him, lips a swollen pink. He can’t help but touch, thumb pushing down against Will’s plush bottom lip, and Will pulls off him with a wet, sucking  _ pop _ , to lick across the pad of his thumb. 

  


“Scoot back,” Will says, head tossed towards the top of the bed, and Hannibal readily obeys, resting against the stack of pillows. Will climbs up onto the bed, slicking lube on his palm, and straddle his chest. He leans forward for a kiss while he reaches to slick up and down Hannibal’s cock. 

  


Hannibal licks across his palate, tasting himself, and parts Will’s cheeks with both hands, his middle finger probing between, only to find him already slippery wet. At his sound, Will chuckles, half-speaking, half-kissing. “You took your time fucking around with the fire,” he explains.

  


Hannibal pushes his finger through the bunch of muscle and within, finding the raised edge of Will’s prostate. He turns his head aside to suck kisses down Will’s neck, where he tastes of sweat and fire smoke. Biting down hard on his carotid, he shoves a second finger in along with the first. “Forgive me if I’d prefer we not burn the house down or die of carbon monoxide poisoning.”

  


Will raises up on his hands and knees. His smile is purely wicked and he rocks back on Hannibal’s fingers eagerly. “You’re so fucking fussy,” he scoffs, though Hannibal hardly takes umbrage. He twists his fingers deep, delighting in the way Will’s eyes flutter closed and his mouth drops open on a low moan.

  


“Let me,” he pants, and stops, chin pressed to his chest and rocks forward and back again, cock bobbing in the air untouched. “Hannibal, let me…” He reaches back again to work Hannibal in his fist and Hannibal slips his fingers free, holds him open while Will sinks down his torso. The head of his cock nudges against Will’s ass, smearing lube back and forth before finally catching and pressing in. They moan low in unison through that slow glide.

  


Once seated, Will’s eyes open sluggishly, dreamily. He looks like nothing so much as an debauched, fallen angel, with his curls in riotous disarray, kiss red lips and the flush that spreads across his chest and down his belly. Hannibal squeezes one turgid, dusky-rose nipple between his fingers, delighting in the way Will’s hips jerk and his cock dribbles precome down his length.

  


Will takes his hands, careful with his left, and holds them, fingers tangled together, against his own chest as he begins to move. There isn’t much leverage to move this way, less fucking and more an obscene grind. Abortive little movements, thighs twitching when Will rises just a little and lowers himself again with a sinful swivel of his hips.

  


“Think you can come like this?” Will asks. Sweat dots his forehead and trickles from the ends of his hair to land on Hannibal’s stomach. 

  


“If you wish it.” 

  


The muscles of Will’s abdomen twitch beneath their hands and he brings Hannibal’s right hand to his cock, wrapping their fingers tightly and jerking fast and hard and mostly dry. “Fuck, when you say shit like that,” he growls and shoves his hips back hard. He wriggles back and forth, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration, and lets out a cry when he finds the angle he was searching for.

  


Hannibal longs to taste the bead of sweat that trickles down his temple, to bury his face in the curve of Will’s throat and breath in the scent of him. There’s too much distance between them. “I speak only the truth.”

  


A strange sound, somewhere between a sob and a burst of laughter, bubbles over Will’s lips. Whether he’s simply responding to Hannibal’s desires, or acting on his own, he leans down for a kiss. It’s more passion than skill, Will’s breath coming too fast for him to do much more than lick messily inside Hannibal’s mouth, foreheads pressed together. Legs splayed wider to take Hannibal deeper and keep working that spot, grunting in satisfaction.

  


“Then come on,” he manages, lipping down Hannibal’s chin. Will works their hands on his cock at a desperate, fevered pace. “I want to feel you.” 

  


In encouragement, Will flexes his sphincter and kegel muscles, a rippling grip on Hannibal’s cock that milks his orgasm from him. Head tipped back on the pillow, neck bared for Will’s bruising kisses, Hannibal pumps his hips up into Will’s welcoming body as he comes, chasing the sensation of release.

  


Will relinquishes his hold on Hannibal’s hands to brace himself on his chest, riding him through it, even as he begins to soften and gasp from the overwhelming stimulation. His fingers spasm around Will’s cock and give a violent twist on the upstroke, roughly thumbing the head with the edge of his nail. He’s come to learn just what Will needs, and when. 

  


Now, Will comes apart for him so exquisitely, the pleasure painted over his face when he jerks in Hannibal’s hand, semen spurting over his knuckles and across his chest. He stays seated on Hannibal’s limp cock through the aftershocks and chuckles, breathlessly and beautiful, when he catches Hannibal’s wrist and stops him, saying, “Enough. That’s enough.”

  


Hannibal sucks his knuckles between his lips, licking Will’s taste from his skin, still smelling vaguely antiseptic. He finds it an altogether pleasant flavour, made even more so by association. Will watches him with a tolerant, fond amusement, and swings his leg over in the dismount, collapsing instead at Hannibal’s side.

  


“So be honest,” he says, still catching his breath, voice raw from sucking Hannibal’s cock. “What got you off about that? Was it the cutting or the stitching, or all the talk of marriage? Do you have some sort of fidelity kink? Is that even a thing?”

  


Around his mouthful, Hannibal murmurs, “You.”

  


“Hmm?” Will raises up on one elbow, cheek rested in hand, to look down at him questioningly.

  


“You are what got me off,” Hannibal clarifies. “The rest is incidental.”

  


Will groans and rolls his eyes, flopping back down on the pillow beside him. “You’re such a fucking hopeless romantic,” he mutters scornfully. All the same, he takes up Hannibal’s wrist in his hand, touch oh so delicate, and strokes over the bandage, the raised rows of stitches he’s made beneath.

  


“Then I suppose that’s another reason why we’re so well-matched.” 

  


Grumbling wordlessly, Will rolls onto his side and pulls the comforter up over them both, and reaches across Hannibal to turn off the bedside light. He nuzzles against Hannibal’s shoulder, bandaged forearm cradled tenderly between his arms and their bodies. 

  


It’s just beginning to ache, a faint hot throb that will no doubt become insistent at some point in the evening, and Hannibal isn’t particularly tired. On the other hand, the pain is a welcome reminder of Will’s feelings. There is nothing that requires his attention--nothing he’d rather be doing, at any rate, than lying here, feeling the tension leaving Will’s frame as he gradually gives himself over to sleep.


End file.
